


Nuka Cola Dark

by freshneverfrozen



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: All kinds of sex, Anal Play, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Reader/Porter Gage, FemaleReader/William Black, I'm inviting ya'll to Nuka World, M/M, Maybe Mags, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader's a boss ass bitch, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshneverfrozen/pseuds/freshneverfrozen
Summary: F!Reader-insert for all those who want Porter Gage to get behind them and whisper in their ear. And take a stroll in William Black's Parlor while you're at it. You're a vanilla trader turned Raidette who doesn't always require vanilla sex. Pre-SS/Nuka World DLC. Get on my literary masturbation level.





	1. Welcome to the Lioness' Den

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be frank - 1) I've never attempted 2nd person before and 2) there's probably going to be a lot of sex from here on out. Less plot. Mostly sexy one shot-ish things. Loosely linked at best. This fic is purely for fun, because I can't keep my Nuka World thoughts to myself. Strap yourselves in, kiddies.
> 
> First chapter's set up though. Gruesome, nasty set up. Gage's eye patch makes a cameo.
> 
> *AHEM* briefly attempted rape, mostly the threat of rape and some groping. From here on out, it's pretty consensual once our reader finds her stride. But...they're still raiders at the end of day.

You know that the world had burned once before. But then, knowing and witnessing were two different things. You'd never cared about that world. But this one, the one blazing high and hot, it’s yours. And it is dying.  
They are killing it.  
Men and women in body paint, whooping at the moon, faceless knives in the shadows, digging into prey as it scrambled and screamed...and then there were the ones who took their time...they knelt and they shot for the joints that would make the innocent crumble before them. 

You witness. And you weep. 

Tears or acid rain, you don't know, but your face is smoking from the heat of the fires and the emotion evaporates before it reaches your chin. You're not granted the mercy of tears, so you press your back flatter still against the small space beneath the humble stall you'd been so proud of, the one you'd left home to build. You press back and you hide against your life, for your life. 

You think you might hate it, even as it shields you from eyes that glow in the flames as they pass. The disgust for the clapboard panels and scavenged burlap threatens to burn you up before the flames reach you. 

It's nothing. Less than an inch of wood between you and the end of the world. 

Another shriek breaks the air over the bullet rain and the cackles and the booming fear and then you're reminded again why you'd ducked beneath this simple hutch. Because if you'd run, you'd be dead. By the animals or the freaks or those black-clad grim reapers. 

_Wait, wait, wait, wait…_

Wait until the eye of the storm passes over you. Wait and then go, go carefully and quickly and don't trip over the bodies. 

Time stops as dead as the antique watch in your pocket. It could be one minute or thirty but when that brutal wave is gone around the corner you drop to your belly and you _crawl_. Over rocks and through centuries of trash, until your belly’s raw and bleeding. Close to the ground, like a corpse. Something wet gives like a sponge under your arm in the darkness and in the next moment, you register a new warmth against your face - warmth, you know as it steals the breath from you, that is from the still steaming innards that have been emptied onto the pavement. 

What meager supper you'd had is up and out of your mouth, out of your nose before you can choke the bile down. 

_Keep going. Gotta keep going_ . 

Got to keep going or it'll be your insides someone's crawling through. The park's entrance is in sight. Those faded Nuka World letters shine like a beacon and there's a twitch in your calves that nearly brings you to your feet. The pounding in your brain whispers promises that reality can't keep. Stay low and slow and smarter than the ones who proved running was a quicker way to die. Get to the gate. Get to a ditch or a rock, somewhere far out of sight, where you'll be too much trouble to chase down. Pray one of those reapers doesn't have a rifle good enough to bring you down across 200 yards of arid plain and nighttime. 

Relief doesn't have time to stutter your heart when you gasp that first lungfull of open air. You'd almost forgotten that it didn't always reek of copper and shit... 

The howling starts in the span of a heart beat and you're just past the entrance when it reaches your ears. It's just as well. Because there's no more skin on your stomach or the tops of your breasts and…. 

You tried so _hard_. So smart. So careful. 

The idea of making a break for it slashes your mind like a knife to a tire and then that brutal, impending reality reminds you and the thought is gone just as quickly as air. 

That'll only get you a death just like the others. 

You like to think you might die with some pride. 

Your legs are unsteady and it's only when you stand that you realize your knee caps are numb to the bone. Funny, you hadn't noticed these murderers had dogs. But then, the panting was probably hard to hear over the screams and the fiery splash of molotovs. 

Hopefully, someone will shoot you before the hounds reach you. Their black shapes are loping toward you and you might wonder at how something so frail can so adeptly make your stomach turn to water if it wasn't for the shine of teeth that gleam orange amidst the flames. Those lipless jaws draw your eyes and no matter how much you blink, the snarling siren song lulls you deeper. 

It's coming, death is. 

This morning, you wouldn't have thought you'd be ready, but with the blood of people you'd known and laughed with staining your clothes and your skin, death might not be so bad. 

Probably cleaner. 

You've forgotten if you believe in an afterlife or not. 

A clap of thunder darkens your world, your eyes squeezing shut as, in some relieved recess, your mind recognizes the sound and braces your body. 

Not thunder. It's a gunshot. 

A yelp and then a heavy thud as something falls nearby and you'd peak out if the blood hadn't caked your lashes and near glued them shut. 

There's a light brush of a swift moving something against one leg and a nip at your hand to let you know you've been spared. 

It costs you a few lashes, but you look. You look and you see an angel and the laughter bubbles up high and hysterical because who would have thought they were real? No white robes or harps but she's there with her pale hair and her perfect face and looking back at you with a smoking revolver in her hand. 

“Well, well…” her voice matches the smoke. It's not singing on high but not all the hocus pocus can be true. “Look at _you_. Aren't you going to run like the others?” 

Run? 

No, no running. 

Your voice tastes like gore and stomach acid. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

The angel cocks one hip and her gaze blisters you like a wildfire. She hums and if it sounds more like a dirge or a hymnal, you have no time to decide. 

“Tell me something,” Anything. You'd tell her anything if it means another breath. “Would you kill to save yourself?” 

_Oh God, angel of death_ ...You'd heard of those before, in late night songs and legends from a time before when all those things mattered. But all you can do is pray that she doesn't mean for you to try and take a swing at her. Pride, you remind yourself, dignity might be nice as well. 

Something, some gut instinct, the same one that had warned you to stay low, tells you that you have to keep your voice strong. Mimic her song. Lie maybe, but lying certainly beats crawling and running. 

“Yes,” good, make her believe, “I would.” 

Her chin tilts up and you can't tell what color her eyes are but you can _feel_ the coldness in them. It chills the fire until the hot, lapping tongues no longer singe your skin. 

“How about for money?” 

“I…” 

She's waiting. The game field has narrowed to the point of crushing you. You're still playing for your life. 

“How _much_ money?” 

Clever words you'll pride yourself on later. 

Her laugh is cruel and biting and beautiful. 

It's like the jingle of bells. A jingle that turns to tolling. You might laugh too, if the holstering of that gun didn't have your breath frozen in your chest. 

You go when the angel beckons, her crooked finger catching you like a fish on a line. 

“Alright...you've earned yourself a chance, sweet thing.” 

Blue. Her eyes are blue. 

You follow her without having to be told and when she stops by the pump you'd drawn water from this very morning beneath the sunshine, you understand what you're meant to do. 

She snatches up a ragged scarf from a dead man...Blake, his name is - _was_ Blake. He sold tatos and melons. 

You take the stained fabric before she can see your hands tremble and lean over the pump so that when the tears fall, she can't tell it from the water. 

Even Abraxo wouldn't make your face clean enough but at least the damp cloth swipes away the surface layer of filth you'd acquired. Your skin still feels dirty and stained and even when she raises an appraising brow you marvel through the fear at how she can see past any of it. 

“They like pretty faces,” she says, “yours will do. But don't expect mercy. That mouth will only make them more brutal.” 

You're not sure you could feel more brutality even if they dealt it. 

The screams give way to victory cries as the two of you walk the now quiet streets. The darkness seems a blessing as you move; only prone shapes and the occasional squelch underfoot hint at the death toll. In the month you'd been at Nuka World, you'd rarely visited the mountain on the other side of the park. It's a hulking behemoth now, a great, craggy shadow jutting up from your world, a dagger through its heart. The base seems alive as dancing shadows play in the wake of the hell they've created. These are the monsters that hide under beds and in closets, the ones your family had warned you about before you'd decided you knew better and had struck out on your own. 

You feel in the empty ache in your gut at just how wrong you'd been. 

The whisper at your side is only heard over the yelling because she's hovering there at your shoulder, close enough that those eyes seem almost trustworthy. 

“Remember what I said.” 

_Almost_ trustworthy. But you nod and taste blood in your mouth when you repeat that gospel truth to expect no mercy. 

A new threat creeps up from your fingertips to your heart as the cool touch of something sharp presses from the angel's palm into yours. A knife. The tip of it pressing into your life line makes you jerk and clasp if only to stop it, but once again you know, you understand without her having to say a word. Take it. Hide it. Use it. 

A small and wickedly sharp blade meant solely for killing. Just long enough to puncture an organ or an eye or a throat. 

You tuck it into your right sleeve and clutch it until you bleed. 

She's going to make you prove your earlier words. 

A test of faith. 

It might have been better if you'd run like the others. 

But then you see the heads on the stakes being passed around. Heads you recognize. Martha. Patches. Jones....you can almost name them all. Their necks are raw and weeping and their cheeks and lips twitch with final throes as those sightless eyes stare back as you pass. 

No, no...you don't think you'd like to die here like them. 

Through the masses, she pushes you, even when your feet falter as the weight of your fear makes your bones creak. 

“A souvenir, Mags?” someone asks. 

Another howls and his hand swipes against one of your breasts before _Mags_ can drive you forward. 

“Housewarming gift for Colter?” 

“Haha! How about for all of us?” 

You feel like a radstag doe surrounded by hungry mongrels. There are many more faceless hands that paw at your face, breasts, thighs, anything they can touch before suddenly you can breathe something besides stink again. 

The throngs have opened up, circled like children around a campfire. And it seems that timeless rule holds true - the biggest and meanest is king among them. He towers over everyone else, housed in a case of power armor so that not even his eyes can be seen. 

_Coward. Fucking coward._

“Find yourself a playmate, Mags? Didn't know this ‘as your type.” 

His voice reminds you of the armor he's wearing. Bluster and bite and bloody. 

Something moves nearby, a small and quiet flinch not at all like the frenetic posse all around you. Survivors, you realize. Just like you. 

_Oh God…_

The angel can't mean for you kill each other. No, that can't be it. The little knife would slip from your hand if it wasn't half-buried in the meat already. 

Mags speaks slowly, as if she's entertaining a toddling brat. “This one's got... _grit_. Reminds me of me.” 

White teeth flash beside you, sharp over painted lips. 

The power armor muffles everything else beyond the man’s derisive snort and your shoulder twinges as Mags’ grip tightens. 

“You'll get plenty when the divvyin’s done.” 

You can feel his approach in the soles of your feet. It shakes the earth and not even the angel can protect you when one massive hand closes around your arm and snatches you forward. Your busted knees split deeper as they crack against the ground and by God, if you could see an opening in that armor, you'd die trying to jam Mags’ knife through the raider king's spine. 

“You want this ‘un, Gage? My gift to you.” 

“Nah, boss.” A new man speaks and you can hardly see him for the yellow armor he wears. “Let Mags have her. I don't wanna step on those pretty toes, after all.” 

_‘Let Mags have her.’_

Not for a second will you let yourself believe he's trying to help you. It's like everyone but you knows what's coming. Mags and this man with the drawling words that make you almost hopeful. 

“I'll take her, boss!” 

“Better share, RedEye!” 

“What’re you waitin’ on then? Somebody come get this bitch before I toss ‘er with the others!” 

Hands are grasping for you before you can see where they’re coming from. A heavy body lunges for you and then it's all you can do to stand before the raider tears your hair out by the roots. For the first time, you scream. 

You scream and it's all fury and rage hollowing out your bones and making you light on your feet. A flaccid cock catches your eye as the raider who has decided to claim you like a dog in heat starts to stroke himself with his free hand. He means to take your dignity and your pride and leave you either dead or used and spread for countless others like him. It's like a dance the way the man spins you in his wiry arms and then there's a rising crescendo to the music because you'll die before you let him take you quietly. 

You'll die or he will. 

‘ _Would you kill to save yourself?’_

Yeah, yeah you guess you would. Because the blade in your hand drops low so that you can grip it underhanded. If he knows he's dead when he drops like a stone moments later, you don't know, not as your mind echoes and replays at lightspeed the feel of the knife slipping through skin and tissue and the spurt of hot blood like water over your hand...and the instinct to hold tighter, to not let go for the world as you ripped the weapon out of him. 

You think maybe his friends realize he's dead before he does. 

There's curse and shouts of disbelief and then another is on you and driving you to the ground. 

“The bitch has a knife!” 

“She stuck Pigman!” 

You stick the next one too, the one that's on you not with the intent to rape, but rather to kill you if the smashing of your skull against the pavement is any indication. Man or woman, you can't tell, but they’re going for your armed hand, so you move it. Up and then down with all the force fighting for your life can muster. Leather is a hard thing to cut through but this blade’s sharp like the woman who gave it to you. Whatever organ you puncture earns you a shriek and then the raider is rolling off you and scrabbling away. Almost like they're scared of you now. 

The cornered animal that bit back. 

You've made them bleed. 

Them or you. 

But they are hundreds strong and even as the blood on your hands carries you high, you feel the truth in your bones. 

But you sure as fuck took one or two of the bastards with you. 

A voice roars fierce and clear above the renewed frenzy and you've heard the ring of those bells before. 

“What did I tell you?” The few steps Mags takes towards you drives the others back. “She's got grit.” 

Grit. And blood. 

“What's your name, honey?” 

You answer her. You make sure she and every last one of them knows it. 

“Hear that, _Overboss_?” 

The big raider seems to have, because he's looking down at the man in yellow armor like there's some explanation for what's just happened. The other man, the one with only one eye, you notice for the first time, looks to you as if you might fill him in. The red dripping from your fingertips says enough. 

He speaks when the Overboss says nothing. 

“Looks like ya got yourself a shiny new Operator there, Mags. Poor ol’ Pigman shoulda’ known better,” he grins at you out from under that face plate that hides his bad eye, “Welcome to the team, kiddo. Somethin’ tells me yer gonna fit right in.” 


	2. Come into His Parlor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may come to notice that the word “pussy” is to me what “moist” is to most other people. *shudders* I much prefer the term “squish mitten.” Isn’t that so much better? Walking the line between gyno visit and 70s porn film is hard, folks. Now, who’s ready for some sexy times?

Turns out, no one really cares what your name is. To most, you are just another Operator, to the Operators, you're Trader - their idea of a joke from what you can tell. An unpleasant irony. But to Mags...to Mags you’re usually Sweet Thing. Her fix when she wants to feel charitable. 

Doesn't bother you a bit. Nearly a month at her beck and call and you were fed three meals a day and had a bed of your own. The firm mattress that smells of perfume more than it does of dirt makes it easier to ignore the occasional shout from outside when one of the Pack or those crazed Disciples decides to take a swing at a trader. 'Slave' is probably the more honest term, but between you and your pillow, you prefer their names. Names you remember, even if they refuse to meet your eyes when you pass. 

It's late though, and when the latest pained yelp stirs the Parlor's otherwise quiet air, you can't quite manage to crawl out of the bed. Not your job. Mags would call you if you were needed. This sound had come from inside the main room and the bark of laughter that follows only reinforces your decision to stay where you are and far out of the trouble that's brewing. You'd heard that laugh a few times now. It's static over smooth jazz on the radio. A whiskey voice that is as much a pair to its sibling as imaginable. William Black taking care of the dirty work and liking it. 

Some fool Pack animal who thought stealing from Mags was healthy. It isn't. And he learns as much with each finger William breaks. When the whimpering stops, the pillow is over your head rather than under it and if anybody asks, you'll tell them to mind their own. Politely. Because you're not quite one of them yet. But you've watched Mags enough to learn that the tone and the glare behind it are weapons enough. 

Sleep only comes in short bursts these days. Power naps because it’s hard to close your eyes with the footsteps of raiders nearby. But it doesn't come at all tonight. The Pack thief has got you jumpy - his screams too near the ones you'd heard before. 

You slip from the bed and stretch, taking your time and tilting your ear to make sure the curtains have been pulled on the scene in the other room. Silence. 

Good. 

A shower might do. There are old ones labeled “Employees Only” that some of the brighter raiders had managed to get working. They weren't all born to this, you'd learned, just like you. Some have skills outside of murder and mayhem. 

The hallways are mostly empty. Even Mags has retired behind a locked door, though you can smell the acrid tang of cigarettes wafting out from under the cracks. For some reason, it puts you on your toes and makes your steps lighter. 

You aren't expecting someone to round the corner as you reach the little recess that once had passed for a locker room. 

It makes your hand slip behind you for the blooded knife that the wicked angel had insisted you keep. 

Recognizing the face above you doesn’t make you relax, because if Mags Black is the finger on the trigger, then her brother is the bullet. 

William Black looks like the gun he wields. Lithe and sleek, polished so that the sharp edges shine to blinding. A woman could get lost looking at him and she'd never see the bullet leave the barrel.  
The pull of his lips at one corner is a hammer cocking. 

You both know it. 

He drawls as he looks down at you, "Can I help you with something?" 

"Just waiting on the shower." 

"Hmm." His grin bares teeth. “You're too late There's a line.” 

He motions to himself, drags a hand in front of his bare chest. Lower than he needs to, because your eyes stop only when his fingertips come rest at the edge of his pants hitched low on his hips. 

The rat bastard. 

There's a flare between your legs. A quick pulse at the thought that you'd just about straddled those hips not so long ago and you'd both liked it. 

His voice lets you know plainly that he's well aware of what just crossed your mind. 

"Mags says you're good with your hands." 

You don't say anything because his words rattle too loud in your brain for you to hear yourself think. 

_You'd know…_ And he'd been good with his, too. 

Then he turns, he bares that beautiful back that's as toned as the rest of him. The gash that runs from one shoulder to the other looks like a slash of garish paint on a pristine canvas. Somebody should be shot for doing a thing like that. 

"Huh, don't tell me you've got a weak stomach." 

You can play this game. It's a dog eat dog world and he's quick to hide the involuntarily flinch when you reach out and run your thumb feather-light beneath the weeping edge. 

"What happened?" 

Tanned shoulders roll and no answer comes. 

"Alright..." The minute you spend gathering some antiseptic and gauze from a nearby locker is one you devote entirely to trying to figure out why he'd practically invited you to touch him. And why exactly you’d obliged him. The memory of a straining seven inches answers that question. 

The wound had been cleaned already, you noted, several times by the looks of it, and there's nothing left to do other than pretend to look busy and pray he won't feel your hands tremble. 

Last time...last time he had tasted like smoke and blood. The first shot of whiskey after a bar room brawl. He was the last straw of insanity in the new hell you’d found yourself a part of. Now, he lets you remember and from the way his legs stretch wider as he settles down on a bench, you think he might be doing the same. 

Mags had all but thrown you at her brother after Colter’s right-hand man had passed judgment. A-Okay. A killer amongst killers. All you had noticed had been a tall man, less bloody than the others, who had taken your arm just as his sister had and then led you away. Kept you clear of the painted lunatics and closer to the ones dressed in dark suits and ammo belts. 

He’d kicked open a nearby door and you hadn’t needed a push before you stepped into the darkness. 

It was a shop you had never noticed before. Boarded up and dusty with more grime than radiation. Faded red coffee cups, glasses with rocket bottle decals peeling off, a cracked blue register on top of a counter… 

He didn’t ask before slipping one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. Just scooped you up so that you smelled molotovs on his clothes and aftershave on his skin. Aftershave. You’d never met anyone who used aftershave. It was warm and soapy and you knew without asking that it cost more than you’d have made in a year at your little stand. 

The counter was solid under your weight as he sat you atop it. 

“Impressive show you put on.” 

_Impressive...show? They enjoyed it..._ The thought was less horrifying than it was numbing. You flexed your hands and found the skin tight. It cracked and pulled and left little runs in the drying red. Was it yours? Or was it the other man’s? You knew the answer and it made you look away. 

“Get those rags off,” he told you and plucked at the spattered fabric around your neck. Fabric that had been a faded orange earlier that day. It was more a deep red now. 

You took a good, hard look at him before you moved. Second in command to the woman who saved you probably, and cut from the same cloth. With angular, hard features that stood out like glass edges in the dim light from the fires outside, he looked...well-bred. But there was something distinctly canine about his features, not mongrel like the others, no feralness in his eyes, just a gleam and a set to his mouth that made you think ‘wolf’. 

There was a clatter beside you that caused you to snap your eyes away from him. A gun. You had to wonder if it was loaded. 

“Anyone comes through that door who isn’t me or Mags, shoot ‘em. Pack’s not going to forget what you did.” 

You didn’t ask where he was going. You didn’t care. 

Swinging your feet against the counter almost could distract you from the smell of blood in the air. 

Like copper. 

Or a hit of Jet, if you breathed deep enough. 

The commotion outside got louder as the fires got bigger. You looked away from the windows. Looked anywhere else, at the signs of life long past around you. You could almost see into the corners if you squinted hard enough, could almost pretend the shadows weren’t reaching for you with long, cold fingers. 

His voice made you flinch. “Well, look at you. I half expected you to put that barrel in your mouth.” 

“How about in yours?” 

You wanted to swallow the words as soon as you’d said them, but the sass was in the air and it was almost as pungent as his cologne. 

But he laughed. More of a bark than anything. 

“I’ll give Mags credit,” he moved from the doorway to stand against your knees, “She’s got an eye for talent.” 

It was hard to feel any heat from him with all the armor he wore. Like one of those Commonwealth synths was leaning against you. Hard and cold and - suddenly his hand was on yours and you realized he wasn’t so very cold after all. There was a pulse there. He was alive. Not like the other one, the one you’d killed. 

His eyes narrowed at a corner behind you. “What’s that?” 

You looked over your shoulder just in time to feel the wet bite of acid against your palm. 

“ _Shit_!” 

The rat bastard. 

Your foot bounced off the metal plating over his thigh, so you reached for the gun instead. It was no longer there. 

But from the smirk he wore, he knew you’d tried to go for it. He pressed the mouth of a dark bottle against your chin and it was the same smell currently drifting up from the laceration on your palm. When you didn’t move to take it, just narrowed your eyes at the massive black shadow in the distance and thrust your hand back into his, he turned the bottle up to his own lips instead. Took your hand though. 

You let him clean it and when he moved to help you out of the top layer of clothes you wore, you didn’t protest because you could feel his breath on your neck and your arms and he was _alive_. 

So were you. 

And that had to count for something. 

“Damn filthy,” you heard him mumble and caught the curl of his upper lip as he tossed your scarf and outer shirt away. It left you in only an undershirt you hadn’t washed in a week. All at once you were glad it was as dark as it was, because the air hit your newly exposed scrapes and you almost cracked a tooth to keep your eyes from watering. You focused on his breathing. On the wet, whiskey-soaked cloth he was sweeping over your chest and making a point to dip between your breasts. His breath ghosted there and you hoped he didn’t feel the twitch in your muscles. 

“What’s your name?” Put a name to that aftershave and carnivorous face. 

“William.” 

_William_ , you thought, _William._ Living people had names. You had a name. 

“William,” you repeated and something about the way you said it caused the rag to press a little harder over your right breast. He returned the favor, must’ve heard yours when you had shouted it for them all to hear. 

“Hmm?” 

He let out a grunt. Amusement or annoyance, you couldn’t tell, but he said your name again regardless. As he leaned down, you heard the splashing of the rag in an old enamel bucket he’d filled with water when he’d left you. It was chilly against your skin, but it got the blood off, so you weren’t going to complain. It was, however, something you could do yourself and you considered asking him why you weren’t - but then he might stop, and if he stopped then there’d be no one separating you from _them_ , from what you’d _had_ to do. 

_From the choice I made. Me or them. Me or...him...William._

You spoke up as the rag ran up your arm, his hand on your wrist, thumb over your vein and brushing back and forth absently. It made your fingers curl. 

“I’m alive,” you said. 

That rag stopped. Tossed to the side. He planted his arms on either side of you and met your eyes. “You’re alive.” 

“The other one...he’s not.” 

There was a puff of warm air over your collarbone from something that wasn’t quite a laugh. 

“Not even twitching. You’ll get used to it...might even start to like it.” His weight shifted against your knees - close enough for all that metal to pinch \- and then he gripped your chin, tilting your face this way and that. “Yeah...yeah, you might like it now.” 

“Fuck you, _William_.” 

“Look at those eyes, at the black in them. Like spilled oil,” he was so close you could feel his words on your jaw. That aftershave was like whiskey beside a fireplace and you held your breath because this man made breathing dangerous. It didn’t do you any good, because his voice worked a spell of its own. Even if it told lies. “You do _like_ it.” He sounded so damn sure it made your jaw clench. “Or maybe it’s just me you like.” 

Lies. Lies and bullshit. 

“Fuck you,” his eyes were dark and they narrowed to meet yours, “Fucking raider piece of trash. Fucking _murderer_...you fucking kill people -” 

That hand suddenly engulfed your entire jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks to cut off your words. 

“Careful,” he said and he meant it. 

It felt suddenly like you were back on those fiery streets again, exposed and waiting for the beast to tackle and tear at you. There was nowhere to go. He had moved between your dangling legs and you’d been so intent on hearing his voice and reminding yourself that you could listen and think and respond because you were _alive_ that you hadn’t been paying attention to the fact that every last one of those things could change. 

Maybe that’s why you did the one thing you shouldn’t have done. 

Your left hand, the one that was still bloody because he’d taken too much time on your chest, slipped under his arm and snatched around his jaw. William’s eyes went wide until you could see the white around them. 

“Fuck _you,_ William.” 

The way you said it was as if his name was some obscene blaspheme and all too quickly, those eyes weren’t so white anymore. 

The dark red looked almost black, you noticed, dried like it was, the blood as dead looking as the man it’d come from. Odd that the man standing between your legs should make it feel almost fresh again. Warmer with each exhalation. Reanimated like a monster. Like he could undo what you’d done. 

You watched his eyes as you held him - took your chances in this high noon you’d created. One of you had to draw first. 

It was him. 

Quick enough that you never stood a chance. 

His other hand whipped around to the back of your head and caught in the hair there. He could snap your neck if he wanted, or remind you what living felt like. You were in his hands. 

He leaned closer still, until the brush of beard along that narrow jaw scraped your cheek. “Dangerous game you’re playing after what the Overboss just put you through.” 

If it was his words or the memory of limp white cock in filthy hands that made you shudder, you weren’t sure. 

William called your bluff. 

“Or maybe that’s your big plan,” he went on as he nudged your legs wider and pressed into you until the metal bit your thighs, “Got it all figured out already? Make an opportunity out of some _tragedy_? Aren’t you an enterprising little thing.” 

It was your turn to tighten your grip. Right down to the nails. 

“Or,” he said as he winced, “are you just trying distract yourself from all that blood on your hands?” 

When your hand slipped from his face, William had his answer. He smiled and it was like watching an eclipse. Light and moonbeams to nothing but darkness in a matter of moments. One life gone. He was offering you a new one. 

You weren’t sure if you nodded or if he saw the truth in your eyes, but that grin grew wider and he said, “Alright, I’ll humor you. Now, come’re.” 

The hands that had locked you in place were under your ass and lifting you up in the span of a heartbeat. You clung to him, resting your head in the crook of his neck and _breathing_. Alive. Listening to the heartbeat of a man who was just following orders when he'd pulled you from the fire. 

He carried you behind the counter, where the shadows could hide you from anyone looking for trouble. Hide you both, from what you could tell. Having left you with a gun, William seemed like he trusted the other raiders about as much as you did. Later, you promised yourself, later you’d ask questions. But right then, you were laid out across a few dingy floorboards. 

You had to close your eyes as you steadied yourself, because he looked _just_ like a wolf bearing down over you. Like one of those hounds. He must’ve noticed it, must’ve felt the apprehension in the way your knees dug into his sides. 

One hand came down beside your head, though he kept his weight off of you. “If you've never done this before, it's your last chance to say so.” 

If he was more raider or man, you guessed you were about to find out. But you were free of the blood that had soaked you, you knew that much - he’d taken it from you, cleaned you of it. And there was light in his eyes, even among the shadows. _Life_ , you corrected. There was life in yours, too. 

You kicked your boots off. 

“Need it,” the words left your mouth like a drag of smoke, “I need to -” 

“Remind yourself you’re the last one standing?” 

He _understood_. He got it. 

_Still a fucking raider, but a man where it counts..._

William sat up long enough to take off the chest piece of his armor before swooping over you. He moved almost languidly and if that was just him or he was actively endeavoring not to spook you, you weren’t sure. It didn’t matter when his hand slipped up under the edge of your shirt. His heartbeat was still in the tips of his fingers; you could feel it as tracked lightly up your ribs and back down again, sweeping over to the other side until you wriggled beneath him. Nearly too light, enough to make your skin prickle in his wake. Prickle and rise and wish he’d do it just a little more because soft touches were a hell of lot better than a faceless man snatching you by the hair. 

Up he went, and your stomach clenched as he approached your breasts. His thumb swept along the underside of one swell and then back again, and he shifted his hips just slightly to press closer. Stirring, you could feel the first throb against your upper thigh. 

“Say my name,” he whispered, a hand moving to trace another semi-circle under your other breast. 

You choked. “William-” 

“No, like you said it before,” he stopped his exploring, “Put that brave face back on and _say my name._ ” 

So you did. You said it twice. Once like he’d asked and then again when his hand moved in response to pinch sharply at a nipple. He bent his head lower, his lips making the scraped flesh of your chest rise and sting before cooling it with a slow puff of air. You hissed and lifted your hips, driving yourself harder against floor. 

His voice was rougher than his lips as he spoke. “You know why I don’t fuck raiders, sweetheart?” 

You hissed in a breath as he tongued the patch of skin between your breasts. 

“Most of ‘em are filthy,” he said, “And they fuck like they fight. Like animals. I bet some of them are at it right now…” He moved up your body again, caught an earlobe between his teeth hard enough to make you grab at his armored bicep. “Shh...listen. Can you hear them? All that celebratory fucking?” 

You shut your eyes. Heard your heartbeat pounding in your ears, listened to the crackle of fires on the streets...but he was right. At some point, loud, wanton grunts had joined the cacophony of shouts and the clanking of stolen bottles. 

“No shame,” he chuckled, “No style either. But the Operators are better than that. You lucked out.” 

_He’s_ better than that, or at least he thought so. You got the message. 

He swept his mouth along your jaw, all teeth and claiming nips here and there, marking his territory. Still a raider at heart, then. You didn’t much mind, not as he pressed his tongue against a pulse point on your neck and the heat from him made you shudder. 

“Alive,” he reminded you, “Last one standing.” 

You remembered what he said about a brave face and how his eyes had gone wide with surprise when you’d gripped his chin in challenge. It was that thought that made you raise your hands and slide them down his back, palming the toned shoulders that lay beneath his jacket and the curve of his spine. It was his turn for his breath to hitch as your seeking fingers crept under the edge of the fabric to run against the skin of his lower back. Style might not be yours to claim just yet, but you mimicked him just as you had Mags. Followed his lead and kept your fingertips light as you traced the edge of his pants. 

The tongue and lips suckling at your throat turned to teeth. 

“Damn, quick study - _Ah_ , god damn it!” His hips snapped into you as your nails dug roughly into a scar you’d found. 

William was up and out of your grasp before you knew it, raised on his knees and scowling down at you. You could have watched his fingers work the clasps of his bracers, but the tent at the front of his pants was what captured your interest. 

A faint warning in the back of your mind kept your hands at your sides. It’d be like trying to pick up a cocked gun by the trigger. 

Better to just ask. Ask because those other raiders hadn’t asked you. 

“I...want to touch you.” 

He tossed the armor he’d been working at to the floor. “Well, look at those manners...go on then.” 

His cock felt as long and lissome as the rest of him. You followed it with curious fingers clear up to his hipbone. 

“Come on,” he urged you through grit teeth, “Like you mean it.” 

Sliding your palm from tip to base made you wince, but something told you he wouldn’t mind the smear of blood your palm left, not as he angled himself forward and let you satisfy your need to touch something real and pulsing. 

“If you turn out alright, one of these days I’m going to pound you until those pretty eyes have tears in them.” He brushed your hand away and settled back on his heels. “But not yet.” 

You almost cursed again until you saw his hands go for the button of your pants. He peeled them off to reveal stained skin that hadn’t been cleaned of the grime. Skin that probably _couldn’t_. Probably _wouldn’t_ ever feel quite clean again. William paid it no mind as he pushed your legs wide. 

“Keep them spread and don’t even think about closing them.” 

The command was a hard one to obey. You wanted to close them, to rub your thighs together to try and relieve the steady throb of heat that got a little stronger with every word he spoke. Seeing the flash of a knife in his hand took everything you had not to get up and run. 

“Alright, _lady_ ,” the tip fell just below your navel, “Let’s see that pretty cunt.” 

Your head dropped back at the word, your lips parting as you raised a hand to bite at a knuckle. 

The edge of the blade slid down from your hip and you didn’t dare move, not even as it slipped under the band of your underwear and sliced the cloth with a flick of his wrist. Two cuts were all it took for him to pull the fabric clear of you and then you were left bare to the night air and those devouring eyes. 

The knife was tucked away out of sight and his fingers moved to trace the same path as the blade had. 

“You sure alive’s what you want?” He ended the question with your name and maybe it hadn’t been a question at all. Because he said your name like he knew something about you, like he could read the want and the need in the way you arched your hips toward him and flexed your thighs. 

“Yes,” you sighed, “I want to _live_.” 

William started at your knees, sliding back and onto his stomach. His mouth was hot and his teeth cold as he kissed and bit at the flesh there, dragging his tongue as he moved and then exhaling - _restoring_ you. You writhed until his other arm slipped over your opposite leg and locked it down. 

“You smell like blood.” The words were muffled against your skin. 

With his elbow against the top of your thigh, he moved his hand up to where your leg ended and your cunt began. Traced the artery there with dancing fingers that wielded knives as easily as they did a gun. 

Your breath knotted in your chest. 

“William... _touch_ me.” 

He bit down. “ _Hnh_ , you giving me orders?” 

There was no time to respond as the first of his fingers slipped lightly from the bottom of your slit to the top. You felt those kisses falter just once as he repeated the motion and then rubbed his fingers as though to check if he were imagining the wetness that coated them. Like his hand that had touched the artery just a minute earlier, he did the same on the other side with his tongue. Close, so close to your center that it drew the first whine from your throat. Your own fingers strayed to his hair, pulled at the shoulder length strands that weren’t quite dark but weren’t quite light either. He grunted against your thigh and you tugged harder. His fingers were long, the sort that would have made for a good musician in another life, and the first of them dipped into your folds and _crooked_. 

“Unh, God…” It was all you could manage. 

“Not quite,” he drew his tongue over that same line that thrummed with each beat of your heart, “Try again.” 

“ _William_.” 

It earned you a second finger. His mouth followed and just as he had been with the raw skin of your chest, he was gentle in his torture. He _enjoyed_ it. A lap to taste you, a drag to make you choke on air, and a slow circle over your clit that made you curse him. 

He murmured words you couldn’t hear over the pounding between your ears and his fingers started to work faster and deeper, flexing and then straightening with each pull out. 

“If you’re still standing by the time the month is out...I’m going to own this snatch of yours.” He finished the promise with your name and swore as your nails scraped his scalp. 

His fingers left you with a final twist and you would’ve complained if it wasn’t for his lips closing over your clit to suck gently. You felt him slide down further, his shoulders forcing your legs further apart, and flinched once his hands settled at your outer lips. He tasted you slowly, the tip of his tongue laving up and then down, only to dip inside you as you canted your hips. You wanted more. You demanded more. 

He gave it to you. 

He ate at you until your toes curled and drove you to the balls of your feet. One callused thumb slipped up and brushed over your swollen button with delicate strokes, just enough to make your eyes water and bring you to the brink of breaking. 

But you had learned something. You knew one rule in this game already. 

“William _,”_ you said and found your voice quick and breathless, “ _please_.” 

Like you knew they would, his hands twitched at your calling, nails biting for a short, glorious moment into tender skin. 

His tongue dove deeper, the lash instead of the gauze, and you brought your own hand up to pinch roughly at your breast. He saw the movement and you caught his eyes watching you, felt him humming his approval. 

It was almost too much. 

“Fuck...oh, God, don’t...don’t stop.” 

He didn’t. His thumb circled faster, too light to focus on with his tongue working you, and he hitched you closer with one arm. 

The world was starting to fade at the edges. Sound grew suddenly sharper - the laughter, the wild grunts from some nearby sidewalk, the frantic beat of your own heart… 

“Come on, girl,” he growled, “Live a little. _Do it_.” 

The heat of his mouth over your clit as his fingers replaced his tongue was all it took for the world to finally end. You broke. You let him break you and didn’t regret it for second when your back arched like a bow string. Needed him closer as your legs wrapped over his shoulders and didn’t grant him a single breath, just forced him on and deeper. You shuddered and his name left your throat raw as you wept it. 

Alive, you were alive, full to the brim with a heart that drummed through every muscle and vein. 

When your eyes finally opened, William was watching you. Only one arm remained around your leg. The other was moving just enough to draw your attention. Working between his stomach and the floor and without having to see, you knew that other hand had fished under the edge of his pants and was working casually at his cock. You watching him made his lips twist over your swollen mound. The thought of those excellent fingers stroking a member you hadn’t yet seen for yourself made another throb strike low and hot. 

With a groan, he lifted himself, leaning back to let you watch the jerks of his hand under the dark cloth. 

“Yeah,” he said and his voice was gravel and smoke, “Yeah, I think you were a damn good decision.” 

He sucked in a deep breath and finally withdrew his hand. Reaching over, he offered you the pants he had tossed away. 

“Go on. Get dressed before Mags comes to check on you.” 

He said it like he was almost worried. It was enough for you to listen. On boneless legs, you dressed, and the old clothes felt out of place. 

_Filthy_ , you thought. Just like he had said. That was alright; you’d earned yourself some new ones. You left the old scarf where it lay and were on your way out the door when William’s hands caught your hips and pulled you back. 

As he turned you to face him, you heard him say, “Keep that mask of yours on and your mouth closed – you might make it.” 

Somewhere in the night, a raider grunted obscenities that made you shuffle nearer the one who held you. A raider still, but not an animal. William chuckled and squeezed your hips. 

“I meant what I said.” That was the only thing you heard before he surprised you once again, because you never expected him to lower his mouth to yours, but he tasted like blood and smoke and _you_. 

. 

.................... 

. 

That had been a month ago. Almost four weeks to the day. That had also been before you’d learned that well-spoken, _talented_ William was actually William Black, brother and right-hand man to your guardian angel. The one and only, who is currently seated in front of you in the Parlor’s locker room, near the shower where’d he cornered you. The first and only time he’d cornered you since that night. 

As your fingers smooth the antiseptic you’d grabbed earlier over his wound, you wonder if he’d noticed how hard you had tried to avoid him after being informed of his particular relation to your boss. A relation that made _him_ your boss. 

As you draw your hands away, he speaks. “I see you survived your first month.” 

You throw the towel you’ve just wiped your hands on at him. “Are you surprised?” 

“Heh, there was a moment or two when I had my doubts.” 

You busy yourself with applying a clean bandage to the wound. That smell of aftershave is still there, still catches in your nose and makes you breathe a little deeper. 

“All done,” you say after a minute, “That Pack animal do this?” 

“Please,” he scoffs as he stands, flexing his back to test your work, “Mags did it while we were sparring. Wanted to test out a new knife, she said.” 

You can believe it. “Wish I’d seen it. Could’ve made some caps.” 

Those arched, upper-stands brows fall low over his eyes. “You know how to hurt a man’s pride, I’ll give you that.” 

“Not half as well as your sister, it seems.” You lightly slap his injury on your way past him. “Now, if you don’t mind…” You had a shower to get to, after all. And William Black played with higher stakes than you could afford. 

His hand catches your arm before you can take two steps. 

“You could have company if you want it.” 

You grin at him - a little too wide over your face because it’s hard not balk under those predator eyes. “You’ll ruin my hard work if you do that, Mr. Black.” 

“Smart ass.” 

The grip on your arm loosens but doesn’t let go, not before he raises his other hand to touch your face. He takes your chin between his fingers, his thumb running gently over the cleft. There’s something akin to humor in his eyes, or as close to it as a man like him can get. "I'd call you beautiful but..." 

"You'd be lying?" 

"Hmm, something like that. It wouldn’t really be my style." 

"What _is_ your style?" 

His canines peek out from stretched lips. "Ask forgiveness, never permission." 

It was your turn to smile, and you do, you smile because you know how true it is. "Clever tongue you've got." 

"That's one way to put it." His fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. "You're almost pretty...with all the dust washed off.” 

“Speaking of washing…” you step away. He lets you go, leaning back against the chair he’d been sat in with his arms folded over his chest. 

“I made you promise, Trader.” 

You make a face at the name and wish you hadn’t because it tells too much. 

“If you can call it that,” you say quickly, “I’ll let you know when you can make good on it.” 

Turning away, you catch the beginnings of another grin. A man’s grin, you think, not a wolf’s. 


End file.
